Whom the gods would destroy ...

Tea Party candidates did only so-so in this week's Republican primaries. Still, in a number of states this year, the Tea Party seems to have hijacked the party away from the Republican "establishment," defeating candidates preferred by party leaders and presenting voters in November with a Republican party that has swung strongly to the right.

We could end up with a strongly conservative Congress in November -- or, to the contrary, the Tea Party may end up helping Democrats snatch a November victory from the jaws of expected defeat.

I thought of the Tea Party this week, strangely enough, as I read an article describing the life cycle and psychological effects of a parasite called Toxoplasma gondii. (Economist, 6-5-10.) This interesting parasite's life cycle requires it to alternate between cats and mice as its host. It reproduces in the cat, forms a cyst in the cat's intestine, is defecated, and is then ingested by mice (primarily, but also occasionally by certain other mammals, including humans). In order to complete the cycle, the little feller needs to return to a cat, preferably by having a cat eat its mouse host. How to encourage this happy result? T. gondii apparently has evolved the ability to change the personality of the mouse, once inside its body, by triggering the production of dopamine, a neurotransmitter involved in motivation and behavior.

A mouse infected with T. gondii begins showing un-mouselike behavior around cats. He will begin wandering around aimlessly, behaving in ways that appear designed to call the attention of any nearby cats to himself. He finds the smell of cats to be actually attractive -- and thus is lured willingly to his own doom, like a moth to a flame, while in the process perpetuating the life of the parasite he's carrying around.

The writer of the Economist article was interested primarily in the effects of T. gondii on humans who are infected by, for example, eating poorly cooked meat -- increased neuroticism, decreased interest in novelty, poor reaction times, shorter attention spans, and some correlation with schizophrenia. An earlier study showed that men harboring T. gondii were more likely to be aggressive, jealous and suspicious, while women became more outgoing and showed signs of higher intelligence (!). (The Guardian, 9-25-03.)

About 80 percent of the French, but only 33 percent of the British, are infected. Make of that whatever you will.

Anyway, it occured to me that Republican primary voters this year -- like mice begging to be devoured by cats -- seem to be voting (egged on by the Tea Party) in ways that will increase the odds of their party's being devoured by the Democrats in November. Is it far-fetched to view the Tea Party as a parasite that seeks to succeed as a species at the expense of its host -- and does so by altering the host's behavior? Is the Republican party going even loonier because it's been infected by T. partii?

Ok, ok. It was just a dumb thought. A stupid metaphor. I'm sure it has no relationship to reality.

Along for the ride

Incompetence pays off at times. Last weekend, ten of us chipped in to charter a sailboat, setting sail from the Berkeley marina and heading out onto San Francisco Bay. (Many of us were the same folks who set out on an earlier sail in November 2007.)

Chris was once again our captain, assisted by one of his local sailing buddies. Denny, who has been taking sailing lessons, stood in ably as their apprentice.

The remaining seven of us lay back and watched the Bay, its bridges, its ships and boats, and its occasional wild life. And we watched our three competent sailors rushing about, raising and lowering sails, unfurling the jib, securing lines, putting out and bringing in bumpers, sailing before the wind and tacking against the wind, and whatever other nautical things such people do. And we discussed our upcoming lunch stop in Sausalito. It was quite relaxing and very entertaining.

For the Incompetent Seven, our primary task was to keep out of everyone's way and avoid being conked on the head by the swinging boom as the boat came about. Now and then, one of us would be invited to take the wheel. When things were well under control. A bit like being 15 and invited to take the wheel of your dad's car -- but only in a large, empty parking lot where there was little damage to be done.

Much fun. I'm a bit jealous of the Competent Three. But only a little. Sometimes in life, it's quite enjoyable to be just a passenger.

Deposing Canute for not turning back the tide

Over five months until the mid-term elections still remain, and the world of politics may change dramatically before then. But right now, all signs are pointing to a strong anti-incumbent sentiment among the voters. Not good news for the Democrats.

I understand why voters feel the way they do. And a vote to "throw the rascals out" makes sense to me, at the level of city or county councils. At that level, the incumbents may be crooked, they may be incompetent, their policies may simply be out of touch with voter sentiment. Toss 'em out. Reshuffle the deck. Bring in some new blood; let's see what a bunch of fresh faces can do.

But we're talking about Congress. No one really believes that the great majority of congressmen are either crooked or incompetent. Voters' antipathy is directed more toward the overall direction in which they see the country moving. Are these voters opposed to specific policies? It's hard to tell. Everyone's mad, but no one -- so far as I can tell -- has come forward with any specific alternative proposals.

The Republicans have lots of complaints about Obama and the Democrats, but what would they do differently? No bailouts? But that was a Bush proposal; the bailouts almost certainly saved the nation -- and the world -- from a financial collapse and another Great Depression. No health care reform, no re-imposition of regulatory controls on banks? Those were Democratic campaign promises, promises on which the Democrats swept into power. The libertarian solution -- keep the government's hands off the market economy, trust in the Invisible Hand, let the chips fall where they may? That was the Republican non-regulatory approach that -- at a minimum -- contributed to our current problems. That was also the philosophy that nearly toppled the financial system by letting Lehman Bros. go bankrupt.

Much of the current malaise is a reaction to the cold fact that the United States is losing the peculiar economic and military superiority it has enjoyed since World War II. For decades, we have correctly sought political stability by developing a strong world-wide economy. We are now experiencing some of the drawbacks, as well as advantages, of no longer being the only nation with an innovative and productive economy. We probably can find creative ways to adapt to these changes, but to blame the changes and the resulting economic dislocations on an administration of either party is like blaming Congress for a bad hurricane season.

The problem is not the competency of the current members of Congress. And if the problem instead is the policies pursued by the current majority, then voters should consider what alternatives their opponents would adopt in their place -- before they set out on a wholesale massacre of incumbents.

At least the current members of Congress -- Democrats and Republicans -- have some knowledge and experience in running the government. Why do we need replacements who lack that experience -- in the absence of any brilliant new ideas that might compensate for that lack?

Some do, others heckle

Over the past few weeks, I've posted several Facebook updates on Jordan Romero's ascent of Mount Everest from the Tibetan side. Jordan is the 13-year-old kid from Big Bear, California, who vowed, at the age of 9, to climb the highest peak on each continent, after he saw a mural in his school hallway showing the seven peaks. As most the world now knows, he successfully climbed Everest yesterday, together with his father, his father's fiancée and a couple of sherpas. His mother has fully supported him in his climbs.

Jordan began his quest by climbing Kilimanjaro in Africa at the age of 10, and lacks only the summit of Mount Vinson in Antarctica to fulfill his ambitious goal. The Antarctic climb is scheduled for December.

First of all, my congratulations to Jordan and his parents. At an age when most of us were riding bikes for excitement, he has reached the highest summit on earth. He seems unusually mature, thoughtful and focused for his age, traits that should help him immensely throughout his life.

My purpose in writing this post, however, is to note and express concern regarding the huge number of ugly, mean-spirited comments to the news story that have popped up on several news websites. Some of these comments have attacked both Jordan and his family for being rich and spoiled. Others attack the parents for either forcing their son, or permitting their son, to engage in such a risky climb. Some of these comments resemble in tone similar comments found all over YouTube, criticizing the parents of any talented child who presents a brilliant musical or dance performance -- asserting that the kids are being deprived of their childhoods in order to satisfy parental egos.

Some adverse comments, admittedly, express concerns regarding the physical abilities and judgment of any young adolescent, and the possible effects of strenous effort at exteme altitude on a teenager's growing body and brain. These are legitimate concerns, although Jordan's training and conditioning obviously have been superb, and he has been accompanied on every step of the climb by his father.

But the more hostile comments appear to be simple expressions of misplaced class envy, defensiveness regarding the writers' own lack of accomplishment in life as well, probably, as that of their own children, and -- really -- just a hatred of anyone who accomplishes anything by his own sustained effort. The comment that he's had his Everest climb "handed to him on a silver platter," because his family has money -- as if money carried him to the top -- appears frequently. As do sarcastic anti-Mexican remarks in reaction to his Hispanic surname.

One commentator outdid many of his peers by pointing out that Jordan might still fall on the way down, and could then have the distinction of also being the youngest climber to die on Everest.

I have some reasonable conjectures regarding the probable personalities of the writers who make these really offensive and whiny comments -- comments that often convey the same hatred and suspicion of any form of individual excellence that many on-line political comments have been revealing in recent years (one "birther" strongly doubted that Jordan was really 13 years old!) -- but discussion of these conjectures would necessarily exceed in length the size of post that would fit comfortably into my blog format. Maybe I'll tackle the subject of anonymous on-line "comments" from another angle in some future posting.

Meanwhile, my heartiest congratulations to Jordan Romero and his family. The more kids like you this country produces, the less concerned I am with our future as a nation.

-----------------------

(5-25-10) "In the last decade, the Internet has turned us all into players in the game of Simon [Cowell] says. We're in a scurrilous race—who can be the meanest of them all? It's all so easy because it's anonymous, and we're no longer accountable for any of it." -- Ramin Setoodeh, Newsweek Web (5-24-10)

Modified modernism

I share the feelings of our present era that much of Seattle's architecture in the 1950's and 1960's was unfortunate, and represents something of a blight on our landscape. It seems boxy and overly utilitarian, making excessive use of steel and glass. As I discussed earlier, in a post discussing buildings on the University campus, when architects of that period did depart from strict modernism in an attempt to keep a new building from clashing too severely with its neighbors, the results were generally unsuccessful.

But the UW School of Architecture has prepared a very nice documentary film, whose premiere I attended last night, entitled Modern Views, A Conversation on Northwestern Architecture. The film reminds us, first, that Seattle, and the Pacific Northwest in general, were very isolated from the rest of the country during those years, and that, second, their isolation permitted a distinct architectural idiom to arise in this area, much as Australia's isolation permitted totally unique species of animals to evolve on that continent.

Some of the buildings, especially residences designed by the better architects during the '50s and '60s, appear surprisingly attractive and successful, even by today's standards.

The Northwest style grew out of the modernist school as it developed in Europe and the United States before and after World War II, a school that became the dominant approach to architecture in the '50s and '60s. In this country, it is best represented by buildings designed by such architects as Walter Gropius, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, and Philip Johnson -- buildings that eschewed ornamentation and emphasized pure functionality as an esthetic goal.

Architects educated in this tradition on the East Coast who migrated to the Northwest, however, found themselves influenced by local conditions and by the availability of local materials -- mountains, forests, frequent rain, and extensive coastlines on the one hand, and easy access to inexpensive wood products on the other. They also were influenced by the art of the Northwest Indians and the artistic traditions of Asia. Architects like Paul Thiry, Pietro Belluschi, and John Yeon softened and adapted the modernist style to make extensive use of wood, both structurally and decoratively, and to build structures that would complement rather than overwhelm the existing natural and urban environments.

The film interviewed a number of the architects from that school in their old age, as well as UW scholars of architecture, and exhibited a large number of buildings, both commercial and residential, designed by that school. The interviews confirmed my impression, from professional contacts as a lawyer, that architects, in general, tend to be funny and enjoyable -- as well as sensitive and intelligent -- folks to be around.

In Seattle itself, our typical residences tend to date from an earlier period -- mock Tudors, craftsman bungalows, and other styles popular in the 1920s and 1930s -- but there are also a number of very attractive houses, found mostly in more expensive hillside areas, that are built in the Northwestern modernist vernacular. They are often squarish and somewhat boxy in appearance, but their interiors are open to daylight and to scenic views from the outside; hillside houses have been designed to snuggle into the hillside, with a portion of the house often resting above ground on stilts, so as to cause minimal disruption to the natural surroundings. Practical demands -- dealing with Seattle rains -- often required that the characteristic flat, asphalt roofs of the modernist style give way to moderately pitched, shingled roofs, a modification that enhances the appearance of many of the modernist houses built in this area during that period

Not having an architectural background myself, I found that some of the discussions in the film went over my head. But Modern Views is a beautifully designed film of historic importance. It reminds those of us living here in the "Northwest Corner" of our unique architectural heritage.

The heartbreak of RD

In my lifelong search for unique personal qualities, qualities that cause me to stand out from the common herd (in addition, of course, to my bizarre sense of humor and world-renowned blog), I have now hit upon a legitimate medical diagnosis: Raynaud's Disease. This impressive francophone moniker refers to a possibly hereditary condition that makes my fingers often look somewhat like the illustration to the left -- I'm not sure my fingers ever look quite so dramatically horrible, but maybe that's only because they're my fingers and I'm used to them.

I noticed the first signs of Raynaud's Disease (let's just call it RD for short, ok? -- that's the fashion nowadays) when I was swimming at the high school pool during the summer after sixth grade. My hands got numb. I mentioned it to my friend's mother, who said I should see a doctor. In keeping with my usual practice, I avoided talking about numb hands to anyone after hearing that advice.

Symptoms continued over the years. What symptoms? Whenever my body temperature cools off slightly, several of my fingers get numb. On me, it's most often the third and fourth fingers of my right hand, but other fingers are also affected at times. The numb fingers obviously have lost circulation -- hence the white coloration, often tending to yellowish, as shown in the photo.

Today, a New York Times blog made me happy by putting a name -- RD -- to my symptoms. It's a condition, probably hereditary, at least in part, that affects about 5 percent of men, and a slightly higher percentage of women. It's triggered by a cooling of my body core temperature which causes blood vessels in my fingers and toes to constrict. This is a normal result of severe chilling -- the body attempts to save itself by sacrificing its extremities -- but for RD sufferers, blood vessels in a certain extremities overreact to only slight chilling.

My hands and feet can get cold without my experiencing RD effects, so long as my body temperature itself isn't affected. Conversely, my hands and feet can feel warm, but I'll suddenly lose sensation and color in certain fingers when my body core temperature dips slightly and unnoticeably. In winter, I keep the house cool (about 60°) to save energy. With a sweater, I'm comfortable at that temperature (I warm the house for guests!), but RD is apt to kick in. Warming my hands in front of a heater, or in warm water, immediately solves the problem.

What's cool (no pun intended) is discovering that I have an actual medical diagnosis that I can discuss endlessly at parties -- or, in an equally popular manner, in blogs -- a condition with predictable symptoms that poses only a mild inconvenience relative to its impressive glamor. (In severe cases, ulcerations can develop from insufficient circulation, but my condition is much milder.)

So, yeah. Thank you, New York Times.

"Pause Before You Play"

Power must be more than an aphrodisiac. Power must burn so brilliantly that it somehow induces blindness, as well, in the less powerful.

The photo to the left is a mug shot of Mark Souder (R-Ind.), who resigned under pressure from Congress today at the age of 59. He admits that he carried on a "mutual relationship" (I guess that means he didn't rape her?) with an attactive, young married staff member, while at the same time publicly denouncing immoral behavior and arguing that teens should be taught abstinence as the only means of birth control.

Souder and his staffer had appeared together in an "educational" video -- now on display all over the internet -- where she "interviewed" him regarding his firm stand on abstinence education.

No one's perfect, so let's forget about the hypocrisy, forget about the politics, forget about the pain to both their spouses and families, forget about the end to his Congressional career. What then does fascinate me about this whole affair? My mind boggles at what conceivable attraction his young, married protégé -- and in the video, she appears both bright and attractive --could have felt for this self-righteous, overweight, middle-aged (at best) political Bozo?

Such, it appears, is the intoxicating force field projected by even that small aura of power emanating from a minority party Congressman from Indiana.

Music lessons

Let's be honest. I'm not a musician. I did take piano lessons as a kid, and I'm taking them now. I like to listen to music. But I'm not a musician, any more than I'm an artist just because I played with poster paint in grade school and enjoy visiting art museums as an adult. I can't carry a tune worth a bean, and I don't really enjoy listening to a piece until I've heard it so often that it sounds "familiar."

In other words, as the joke goes, I know what I like and I like what I know.

If you've been reading my blog all along, you know that over a year ago I began teaching myself the second movement to Beethoven's Pathétique, plunking away even before I returned to taking lessons in February. Last week, my teacher suggested that she'd like to review my progress on that movement today, so I spent a large part of my week's practice time focusing on it. It was still rough, I felt, but I also felt that I was getting so I could play it without significant errors.

So I sat at the piano during my lesson this afternoon, and absolutely butchered it. I made mistakes I never make at home. I hit wrong keys, repeatedly. The piano felt weird, the keys seemed sticky, my fingers felt weak and bumbling. Sometimes I couldn't even depress a key firmly enough to sound the note. I had to repeat whole sections where I'd gotten bogged down and had lost the thread of my playing. I felt I was banging away on the keyboard while playing a movement that should be played softly and delicately. I was mortified.

When I finished, I said, "Well, that's the worst I've played it for a long time."

Amazingly, she said I did great. She said I'd given the piece a completely reasonable and successful interpretation. She said she really had no additional suggestions to give. Obviously, it needs more practice, so I don't keep hitting the wrong keys, but -- as a matter of musicality, from her viewpoint as a teacher -- she said I've mastered the movement. This from a woman who performed the same sonata as a degree requirement at the Leningrad Conservatory.

To me, mastering a piece has always meant learning to hit the right keys, and playing with the proper rhythm. To be told that I have accomplished something beyond that -- before I've even accomplished that -- is an amazing and wonderful thing. A bit unnerving, really. As though I'd churned out a dimestore novel, and then read a favorable review stating that the book had depths of meaning that I'd never intended or dreamed of suggesting.

So I'll keep plugging away at it. Get those notes correct. Hit the right keys. Check the grammar of my Great American Novel, and run a spellcheck on it, so to speak. My teacher says, let's check back in a few weeks -- let me hear you play it again at that time, and see how it's coming along. Cool! Meanwhile, during the rest of the lesson, she held my hand (figuratively), while I tiptoed my way through the first section (Grave) of the sonata's first movement, a difficult movement whose initial playing I plan to make the major project of my summer.

Bearing arms

"Don't doubt for a minute that, if they thought they could get away with it, they would ban guns and ban ammunition and gut the Second Amendment," said Palin, a lifelong NRA member who once had a baby shower at a local gun range in Alaska. --AP

"They," in Ms. Palin's speech, are, of course, President Obama and the Democratic party. Thus conjectures the little woman from Alaska, whose lack of intelligence, knowledge and good judgment have become the marvel of civilized people on six continents, and of all the penguins on the seventh.

Ms. Palin cites nothing to show that the Obama administration has the slightest interest in "gutting" the Second Amendment. She's just firing up the troops, apparently, saying whatever pops into her mind that might get her audience's political juices flowing.

I, myself, on the other hand, would happily gut the Second Amendment. It's a relic of a frontier society that had minimal resources for law enforcement, and of a new nation that had just fought free of the yoke of colonialism by the use of "well regulated militia." While criminal activity is still a problem in today's society, combating such activity is the responsibility of organized police departments. The last thing this country needs is a shooting war between armed criminals and armed victims -- that cure would be the "cure" of anarchy, and would create far greater problems than the criminal acts that it sought to combat.

But personal defense against criminals isn't really what excites the NRA fanatics. Stated or unstated, the true appeal of the Second Amendment to the true believer is the concept of a free citizenry standing up to an oppressive government. To these zealots, the federal government in Washington is the modern equivalent of King George III, and they themselves -- with their carefully maintained cache of automatic rifles and rounds of ammunition -- are the stout-hearted yeoman of Merry Olde England, or the minutemen of the American Revolution.

If we still believe in some form of natural law, we probably agree that every human being has a natural right to fight against an unjust government. But no government, just or unjust, has any duty whatsoever to promote its own destruction by force of arms. The American government, whose Constitution provides ample means for change in both its policies and its structure, should not be required to fuel the fires of revolution lit by those discontents unable to persuade their fellow citizens to bring about desired changes through readily available political processes.

The Constitution defines "treason" as "levying War against them [the United States], or in adhering to their Enemies, giving them Aid and Comfort." Behind all the talk about the joys of hunting and the need to defend oneself and one's family -- goals that many gun advocates no doubt sincerely embrace -- there is a more powerful undercurrent among the true gun fanatics, the ones who insist on the right to take guns into National Parks, city parks, beaches, shopping centers. This undercurrent is the right wing extremist's intense fear of all authority, and his resulting need for the tools to resist American government, now or in the future, by whatever it takes, including gunfire.

In the past, the Republican party has frequently denounced its political opponents as traitors to the American republic. In its passionate embrace of the NRA, the gun lobby and gun kooks in general, the GOP now, ironically, finds itself in bed with a sect of highly organized potential traitors. As a favorite icon of the extreme right wing once proclaimed: "None dare call it treason."

Yes, Ms. Palin. While President Obama does not, in fact, agree with me, I would cheerfully repeal the Second Amendment and outlaw the possession of all guns except, perhaps, those rifles designed specifically for sports hunting. Other civilized nations have such laws and rely successfully on their police force for protection against crime. They maintain law and order quite satisfactorily, and provide their citizens governments and societies as free as any in the world.

High school accomplishments

Props to Seattle's Garfield high school. During the past week, the school's jazz band won first place in the prestigious, international "Essentially Ellington" high school jazz competition, held annually at Lincoln Center in New York. Garfield has won the competition an unprecedented four times in the past decade. (Seattle's Roosevelt high school, which itself has won three times in the past decade, took fourth place.) And ten of the Garfield group's members won individual awards, more than any other competing school.

Also in the past week, Garfield's soccer team won the regional 4A championship. The school took the title despite the fact that four of its players, including its senior captain, did not arrive until the second half. The four players' plane from New York -- where they had been performing at Lincoln Center as part of the jazz ensemble -- had been delayed in arriving.

I know I've criticized American high schools and American students, and serious problems certainly exist in American education. But there are great kids out there, accomplishing some amazing feats. And Garfield is a great public high school, producing graduates with outstanding academic and musical skills.

Full Disclosure: Garfield is the high school serving my own neighborhood. Go Bulldogs!

The play's the thing

Between the laid-back urbanity of Portland and the edgier urbanity of San Francisco lie two long rural and agricultural valleys -- the Sacramento valley in California and the Willamette valley in Oregon. These valleys are separated by the Siskiyou mountains, which straddle the border between the two states.

Roughly halfway between the cities, on the northern edge of the Siskiyous, lies the town of Ashland, Oregon, population about 22,000. Back in the day, a southern branch of the Oregon Trail brought settlers through this area, on their way north to fertile Willamette valley farmlands; the direction of migration reversed after 1849, when the Gold Rush lured Oregon prospectors south to California. In 1887, Ashland became a stop on the original Southern Pacific route between Portland and San Francisco.

The discovery of lithia (Li₂O) in a nearby source of water attracted health seekers, and plans were made to develop Ashland as a health spa. The spa never materialized, but the town's hope of becoming a resort encouraged intelligent preservation of the tiny river that runs through the center of town. Lithia creek became the center piece of today's attractive Lithia Park, designed by the architect of San Francisco's Golden Gate park.

All of this tedious padding is but preface to my observation that today's Ashland is a shining example of small town civilization, a mini-Athens rising above its rural setting, a rural setting that, while beautiful, is "cultivated" only in an agricultural sense.

Ashland's a cool place to visit.

Ashland's transformation from being merely a pretty little town, railway whistle stop and source of lithia water began in 1935 with the local staging of Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice, supported by a city appropriation of "not to exceed" $400. Today, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival performs eleven plays (only four of which this year are Shakespearean) in repertory each year from February through October. The plays are performed on three attractive stages adjacent to Lithia Park. One stage is an authentic Elizabethan theater in which, this summer and fall, three of the plays (all Shakespearean) will be performed.

The festival today is one of Ashland's largest employers, second only to Southern Oregon University (another town asset, which like the festival also contributes to the youthful electricity, and eccentricity, sensed by even the most casual visitor).

This little travelogue has been prompted by my return yesterday from a four-day visit to Ashland. I met up with Jim B., a friend from grad school whom I last hung out with two years ago during a prior visit to Ashland. Jim was once more seeking ways and means of constructing the perfect bicycle from scratch -- taking advantage of a local expert who offers two-week, hands-on courses on the subject -- and appeared happy to take a break mid-way through his studies to catch up on our friendship.

We spent our days hiking in the hills surrounding Ashland, and our evenings enjoying the local theater. Of our three day-hikes (one of them unexpectedly a couple of miles through snow in tennis shoes), the one that most appealed to me was a seven mile round trip trek on the Rogue River National Recreation Trail. The narrow trail is cut -- a bit precariously at times -- into the cliff far above the river. Our path was liberally ornamented on each side with shiny poison oak bushes, but we apparently escaped unscathed. The trail runs downstream for 40 miles, but we had lunch and turned around at Whiskey Creek, where the trail descended to a sandy boat landing. We were greeted by a number of rafters who came ashore for a break as we basked in the noonday sun. The scenery -- pine and fir, with deciduous trees coming into leaf, and with breathtaking views of the river far below -- was memorable, and the hike just vigorous enough to energize us without leaving us comatose during the evening's performance.

We had advance tickets for two of the festival's plays -- a dramatization of Pride and Prejudice, and a performance, in a modern setting, of Hamlet. Hamlet began unconventionally, with Prince Hamlet -- dressed in a dark suit and tie and wearing dark glasses -- sitting alone on stage, staring at his father's coffin, during the entire time that the audience was filtering into the theater and finding seats. The palace guards were armed with automatic rifles; the "play within a play" was performed in hip-hop. While I have qualms about such attempts at making classical plays "relevant," the acting was outstanding and the "modernization" less intrusive than I feared. In fact, it was the most captivating performance of Hamlet I've ever watched.

The festival obviously has effects on Ashland that go beyond its economic impact. The entire city seems alive to theater. Posters advertising a number of non-festival dramas were seen everywhere. Jim and I occupied the one evening that we had free by attending Ashland high school's student performance of The Importance of Being Earnest. The acting by 16 to 18 year old students was phenomenal. The plot is farcical in nature, but requires crisp delivery of lines, in a British accent; portrayal of highly eccentric characters in a consistent manner; and excellent stage presence and movement. The kids carried it off flawlessly. I'm embarrassed to contrast their performance with the plays that my own high school proved itself capable of performing.

Ashland makes an excellent overnight stop while driving between the Bay Area and either Seattle or Portland. I recommend the stop. I recommend a walk around town and through Lithia Park, luxuriating in the human ambience of creativity, intelligence and good humor. And I recommend checking out the festival's website to see which plays have tickets available during your stay.

------------------------

Afterthought: As a courtesy to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, which provided me such an enjoyable weekend, I'll list this year's plays. The three plays marked with an (*) are to be performed in the Elizabethan theater (which I have yet to visit): Hamlet, Pride and Prejudice, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, She Loves Me, Well, Ruined, Twelfth Night,* Henry IV (Part One),* The Merchant of Venice,* American Night, Throne of Blood.

Apologia

Yeah, I know. Postings have been few and far between these past couple of months. And this post doesn't really count as an essay -- it's merely an assurance to my puzzled readerdom that Rainier96 may be still, but he still exists.

One reason, among several, for my first starting this blog was to provide myself an outlet to express ideas and thoughts that -- sad experience had shown me -- caused friends' eyes to glaze over when brought up in conversation. With a blog, those same eyes may still glaze, but I don't have to watch the disheartening reaction in person.

My problem now -- after three years and 301 posts -- is that I seem to have run out of thoughts that I need to express. I'm hoping this is a temporary phenomenon. A transient psychological quirk: writer's block as a brief spasm of the brain tissue.

Of course, I'm not reassured by the life of E. M. Forster who, after writing five excellent novels, culminating in Passage to India in 1924, lingered on Earth for another 46 years writing nothing else for publication.

Instead of writing, I've been practicing. The piano, of course. I'm taking lessons through a Seattle non-profit organization that provides teaching for all the ordinary musical instruments. My own teacher is an immigrant to this country, ultimately from the U.S.S.R. (where she was educated at the Leningrad Conservatory of Music), by way of Israel (where she taught music in Tel Aviv). She's patient with my essential doltiness, and determined to infuse my desiccated attorney's soul with some small degree of Russian passion.

Admittedly, it's a bit like trying to teach ballet to a truck driver.

I shyly laid before her my rendition of the second movement to Beethoven's Pathétique sonata, which, as I've discussed in earlier posts, I insisted on teaching myself before returning to formal lessons. She's been trying to show me, ever since hearing those fumbling efforts, that Beethoven actually didn't just string a bunch of random notes together, notes which it's now my job to pound off on the piano -- as though I were a court reporter reading back testimony. Old Ludwig's music, it appears, is fairly nuanced and complex, and expresses nuanced and complex emotions. She'd like my playing to display some recognition of this fact.

But my lessons apparently haven't left her in suicidal despair. After a couple of lessons, she asked me to begin working on the third and final movement of the sonata, a movement that, on my own, I'd considered too difficult to even attempt. And this week, she tells me that she wants me to begin work soon on the first movement, the longest and most difficult of the three movements. I'm guardedly pleased that she has more confidence in my abilities -- at least, under her guidance -- than I do myself.

So that's what I've been up to. There is absolutely no reason why I can't write and practice piano at the same time. Well, not at exactly the same time, but you know what I mean. My writer's block must have some other cause, perhaps related to temporary fatigue with our nation's contentious politics, and to the fact that I haven't read any good books or seen any good movies recently. I really should get out more.

Don't give up on me. Something irritating or fascinating or baffling or delightful will soon ignite a spark within. This blog will once more burn brightly, once more a beacon of reason and hope, illuminating a dark and troubled world.

Hella-cool

Sometimes as a wee tad, when my teacher's voice began to drone on interminably, I'd turn listlessly to the inside cover of my arithmetic book. What peculiar information I'd find there! How many pecks in a bushel! How many feet in a rod! Dry ounces and fluid ounces. Furlongs, fathoms and nautical miles.

The conversions were all so arbitrary -- fascinating to my immature brain -- and the units so wonderfully named. But the system was impossible to grasp in any manner other than by sheer memorization. Who, for example, ever decided that there should be 437.5 grains to an ounce?

On the other hand, set out beside these weird measurements was a different system. The metric system, of course, but at that age no one had ever explained the metric system to us. I knew about feet and miles and quarts and pounds, just from daily life. I didn't know about meters and liters. The conversions from English measurements to metric, and vice versa, were even weirder than those within the English system. But the metric system, viewed within itself, was beautiful -- everything in multiples of ten.

And even more fascinating to me -- novice connaisseur of words that I already was -- were the prefixes affixed to units of distance, weight, and everything else. Deci-, centi- and milli-, as things got smaller. Deka-, hecto-, and kilo-, as they got larger.

That was the extent of the metric system inside the cover of my fourth grade math text. Later, I learned even more beautiful terms. Micro, nano and pico -- for a millionth, a billionth, and a trillionth. Mega and giga for a million times larger and a billion times larger. Today, of course, even cheap computers have gigabytes of memory.

And despite education in physics, that's really where my knowledge of metric nomenclature remained. Until today. This week's edition of the Economist points out the usefulness of two additional terms. While "gigameter," for example, would be 10⁹ meters, a "yottameter" would be a much greater distance -- 10²⁴ meters, or 10¹⁵ gigameters. Similarly, at the other end of the scale, a "yoctometer" is 10^-24 meters -- a fairly short distance, by anyone's reckoning.

Why would anyone be interested in a "yocto-anything"? The actual subject of the article was experimentation that has permitted scientists to measure a tiny force of only 174 yoctonewtons. A "newton" is defined as the amount of force needed to accelerate a mass of one kilogram at the rate of one meter per second per second (although the Economist -- a British rag addicted to typically English definitions of measurement -- whimsically describes the newton as the approximate force exerted by the earth's gravity at the earth's surface on one of Sir Isaac Newton's apples).

"Yocto" also is useful in measuring mass. A proton has a mass of about 1.26 yoctograms.

So far, yocto and yotta mark the upper and lower limits of the metric system. No one has any need for a unit representing 1/1000 of a yocto-anything, or 1,000 yotta-anythings.¹ Linguistically, however, as the Economist observes, we're ready if science creates the need. Terms for 10²⁷ and 10^-27 logically should be based on the Greek root "ennea" (meaning "nine" times three zeros).

But an undergrad from California (where else?) has reportedly started a campaign to scrap the Greek nomenclature when we reach that next level, and adopt the prefix "hella" for 10 to the plus or minus 27th. Cuz, dude, that would be either hella big or hella little.

Hella good idea, I'd say.

------------------

¹Fans of humongous numbers will recall, of course, the proposed "googol" as representing 10¹⁰⁰, or 1 followed by 100 zeros. And the later refinement, the "googolplex," defined as 1 followed by a googol zeroes. (Mega-behemoth Google derives its name therefrom.)

Since there are only about 5 x 10⁸⁷ elementary particles in the known, observable universe, the googol -- let alone the googolplex -- seems of limited utility. (Estimated particle numbers, courtesy of Wikipedia.)

My desire to fully describe large-number nomenclature requires that I also acknowledge the Facebook page, "Shitload" is a Standardized Unit of Measurement," to which 847,456 fans now subscribe.

On the trail

Of all recreational activities, one of the coolest and most rewarding has to be also the simplest -- walking. Just putting one foot before the other. Watching the scenery go by.

Walking, in its purest form, requires no equipment other than a pair of shoes. You can walk through your residential neighborhood, observing your neighbors as they live their lives, enjoying the fresh air, admiring the trees and landscaping. At a slightly higher level, you can get out of town and hike the trails: lowland trails along rivers and lakes, or mountain trails through forests and alpine scenery. With a bit more planning, and a little more equipment, you can backpack -- bearing your world on your back and sleeping in the wilderness for a night -- or for a week or for ten nights.

Mountain trekking (and climbing) such as I did last fall in Nepal combines the simplicity of a day's walk on a trail with the advantages of a longer escape from civilization. Freedom from a backpack's encumbrance comes at some cost to your self-respect, however, as you shift a burden that is rightfully yours onto the backs of native porters.

Reliance on porters -- or pack animals, for that matter --is convenient, but requires complicated logistics. It also arouses feelings of guilt from asking poor people to do the dirty work of hiking while you enjoy its pleasures. Your sensation of guilt varies inversely with your degree of exhaustion. It's also somewhat irrational -- you are, after all, providing employment to men who are grateful for it, and whose jobs are considered desirable, even prestigious, within their own society. But the feeling, to some degree, remains. And beyond this "sahib-guilt," there's the added suspicion that you're not quite pulling your own weight, that you've taken one step away from the pure simplicity of the act of walking and one step closer to powering a trail bike up the path.

Next summer, I'm planning to do an eight-day trans-England walk, from sea to sea, following Hadrian's Wall from hamlet to hamlet across the "waist" of Great Britain. This hike, again, isn't quite the pure, self-sufficient walking experience that I've been trying to extol -- I'll be carrying only a day pack each day, while a concessionaire's truck carries my baggage from one hostelry to the next. I'll sleep in beds and eat at inns.

As rewarding as the trek in Nepal certainly was, and as I anticipate the hike along the Roman wall will be, something in my soul urges me to simplify further, to get away from supply trucks, porters, mule trains, and other forms of "assistance" that only complicate the walking experience. Therefore, I'm also hoping to spend some time this summer -- even if only a long weekend or two -- returning to the kind of hiking that I did in the years just after my days as an undergraduate. Backpacking. There's a peculiar satisfaction to be derived from camping in the mountains, out of sight and earshot of other campers, knowing that your own legs provide your only means of transportation, and the pack on your back provides your only source of food and shelter.

Whether alone or with a friend or two, for a few days I want to feel myself once more a part of nature, seeing the world about me as it was seen by pioneer explorers over a century ago.

So, I look forward to a little backpacking -- walking the mountain trails of the Sierras and the Cascades.

Perspective

From outside the United States, many of our nation's political fears and conflicts seem weird and difficult to understand. While I was in Thailand, dependent on sketchy news in the foreign press and occasional reports on the international programs of CNN and the BBC, Congress finally pulled itself together and passed some version of Obama's health care reform bill. It was an exciting moment for me, but obviously not for the non-American world.

To overseas news services, Republican laments that America had gone socialist seemed quaint, just one more peculiar feature of American politics. They felt the same about Democratic exuberance over passage of the bill. Outside our own borders, universal health care, in one form or another, is taken for granted by virtually all developed nations. The foreign press was interested in the story only as representing a political triumph by Obama over the Republicans. They had virtually no interest in the actual provisions of the bill itself.

Travel is broadening in many respects. One quickly realizes that human happiness flourishes under many forms of political system. (So does political conflict, as the "Red shirt" demonstrations in Bangkok illustrated while I was there.) Excellent medical care and good government can co-exist -- do widely co-exist -- with health care programs far more "socialistic" than anything Congress has legislated, or even considered legislating.

And from a foreign perspective, calling Obama a "radical" or a "socialist" appears laughable. But I return home to a world where right wing fanatics clearly aren't laughing.